


Hope

by booksblanketsandtea



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, Kid!Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 19:13:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksblanketsandtea/pseuds/booksblanketsandtea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no doubt in his mind that this is John’s child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope

From [](http://kekiia.livejournal.com/profile)[ **kekiia**](http://kekiia.livejournal.com/)'s Make Me A Monday prompt #3. 

 

 

\------------------

 

Sherlock stands at the door to the flat he once called home, frozen.  
   
It is not fear, or anxiety that has his feet stuck to the carpet outside 221B Baker Street. He knows John will be there, waiting. He knows John will need him, just as Sherlock needs John. He knows that when John sees him, he will swear and cuss and yell – but he will smile, too. He knows that, as soon as John has calmed down, Sherlock is going to do what he has been waiting over three years to do – he is going to take John Watson in his arms and he is _never_ going to let go.  
   
Sherlock is a smart man and he knows all of these things with a certainty that rings as solidly through his being as the bullet he placed between Jim Moriarty’s eyes.

 

   
The crying child, however, is a surprise.  
   
 

 

   
Sherlock can hear John cooing to the child through the door; can imagine him holding the shrieking thing to his chest protectively as he tries to calm it. A girl, from the pitch of the screams.  
   
“Hey now, come on sweetheart. Hush now, I’m here. Shhh shhh shh.”  
   
John’s voice hasn’t changed much; it’s the same familiar, soothing tone. He sounds a bit tired.  
 

 _‘Of course he’s tired. He has a child’_ Sherlock thinks to himself. The sentence seems to drift through his mind and fall heavily into his stomach, dragging his heart down and suddenly he feels queasy.  
 

John has a child. John is an upstanding, old-fashioned man with the best moral compass Sherlock has ever come across.  If John has a child, he undoubtedly has a wife to match.  
   
His heart clenches painfully in his chest; so much so that he doesn’t hear the shrieks increase in volume until it is too late and the door in front of him swings open.  
   
 

 

For a long moment Sherlock stares at John, watching all the blood leave his face and his eyes widen almost comically. The only sound between them is the child’s wails, and, unable to withstand the shock and hurt and _feelings_ in John’s gaze, Sherlock drags his eyes down to the thing sobbing into John’s shoulder.  
   
Young, barely two years old. Mousey brown hair with the slightest hint of gold. An upturned button nose and, Sherlock notes as he looks past the red cheeks and loud tears, eyes of the brightest blue. She’s even wearing a little knitted pink jumper.  
   
There is no doubt in his mind that this is John’s child.  
   
The thing is quieting now, almost as if it can sense the tension between the two adults standing in the doorway. The occasional whimper John’s daughter makes is the only noise.  
 

 

John’s _daughter_. It hits him again, just how strange that is. He wants to hate her, wants to yell and scream much like the little brat was doing mere moments ago.  
   
But he can’t.  
   
 

She’s _John’s_ daughter.  
   
 

He doesn’t even realise he’s lifted a hand until it comes to rest gently on the child’s back, rubbing in a soothing motion he only just remembers from when he was a child, tucked up against Mycroft’s belly as their parents screamed downstairs.  
   
“What’s her name?” he asks quietly, and an odd noise escapes John. It sounded like a sob.  
   
“It’s- her name’s Hope” John answers, and his voice has gone all funny and hoarse. Sherlock looks up from where he’s still staring at the girl – at _Hope_ – and he does his best to smile.  
   
“Interesting choice of name” he remarks and John lets out a strangled laugh before he realises what Sherlock has even said.  
   
“It was Harry’s idea, and it’s not like you can talk, you bloody git.”  
   
Sherlock does smile now, and John blinks, hard.  
   
“John, I-”  
   
“Wait. Just- just let me put her to bed, yeah?”  
   
Sherlock nods and watches John climb the stairs into his room – it must now be Hope’s room. John and his wife must sleep in Sherlock’s old room.  
 

He can’t decide what to think about that, so he turns and goes inside and collapses onto a once familiar couch. He listens to the sounds above his head, letting it all sink in.  
   
 

 

What happens now, he has no idea. Sherlock had never told John how he felt before he left to chase Moriarty – there were moments, yes. Times when they would rush in through the front door, laughing and bursting with the excitement of the case, of the hunt, of just being with each other and winning, always _winning_ against everything London threw at them. And he’d known that John would’ve said yes – had noticed he was bisexual, had noticed how those oh-so-blue eyes lingered on him as they traversed London together...  
   
But he’d never said anything; never thought he had to. Because it was so _Obvious_ , wasn’t it? How perfectly they fit? And so he’d never once told John how he felt. How much he wanted to just stay with John forever, how much he needed to keep him safe. How John made him want to be good. How much he wanted to _keep_ John.  
   
   
Sherlock thinks that he might have lost something important in the past three years, and realises quickly that he’d do absolutely anything to get it back.  
 

Even if he can’t have it the way he wants it – with John, always, _together_ – then he can at least try and share. Because John has a family now, and Sherlock knows that John would never leave them. Not for anyone, and especially not for him.  
   
He’s going to have to learn to share.  
   
The thought irks him somewhat, but it is far better than the alternative.  
   
   
 

After a few minutes John walks into the living room and stops in the doorway, his stare giving away nothing as he takes in Sherlock’s ungainly sprawl over the couch. His eyes flick over him, taking him in, and Sherlock lets him observe as he does a little of his own.  
   
John’s hair is greyer now than Sherlock had ever seen it, the brown and gold and grey mixing spastically on John’s head. His eyes are the same iridescent blue, but they’re heavy with hours unslept. He’s not limping, but Sherlock notes that he’s clenching his fist every so often, like he used to do when he thought about Afghanistan. A glint of dulled gold catches his eye, and Sherlock feels the air leave him.  
   
Even though he was expecting it, the ring on John’s hand – the ring that _someone else_ had put there – it feels like a kick to the gut.  
   
“What’s her name?” He asks again, and he almost wants to throw up at what he’s been reduced to; asking after the names of the people that have so easily replaced him in John’s life.  
   
John lifts an eyebrow.  
   
“Hope – I thought we established that.”  
   
Sherlock doesn’t answer, just nods to John’s hand and lets his eyes linger on that damnable ring. John follows his gaze and a shadow passes over his face.  
   
“Oh,” he sighs, moving to sit heavily in the seat that is still so clearly his. “Mary. Her name was Mary.”  
   
Sherlock’s almost ashamed at the way his head snaps up at the tense, like some stupid mutt catching a scent.  
   
“Was?”  
   
John shrugs sadly.  
   
“Car crash, nearly a year ago now.”  
   
Sherlock doesn’t say he’s sorry, because he’s not. He’s _selfish_ and _desperate_ and suddenly things don’t seem quite as impossible as a few moments before.  
   
“John, I-”  
   
“No, don’t, it’s fine. I’m fine, really.”  
   
“No John, listen. I-” and Sherlock stops because, for the fourth time in his life, he has no idea what to say. So instead he slowly sits up and stands, moving to sit on the armrest of John’s chair. He can feel the heat of John against his side and it makes him shiver. Three years he’s gone without this. Three years without John by his side. He can’t lose him. He just _can’t_.  
 

“Let me help” he whispers, and John’s looking up at him, confusion all over his dear, dear face. “John, please let me help. I’ve- I have never held any interest in children, but I could, I will – for you I will. I’d do my best, you could teach me and if you wanted, maybe we could adopt and she could have a brother or sister to be annoyingly protective of and I’d keep my experiments in Mrs Hudson’s basement and I’d limit my work hours and I’d do my best John because she’s yours and I couldn’t do otherwise.” Sherlock trails off, his hands clasping John’s in a desperate grip. “Please, John” he adds again when John doesn’t reply and suddenly John has stood and is dragging him up with him by his hand and Sherlock is pulled into a kiss that has been at least three years in the making.  
   
John’s mouth on his is electric and Sherlock gasps and pushes into it, slicking his tongue into John’s mouth where it’s warm and wet and John sucks on his lower lip and pulls him closer and Sherlock can’t believe this, he’s dreaming, he’s still in that bloody cave in Russia, he’s gone into shock, he’s – he’s - -  
 

John pulls back and his smile is blinding and his eyes are bright and Sherlock realises, no. No, this is his life. John just kissed him. It happened, and now they’re smiling stupidly at one another and John’s laughing, shaking his head with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.  
   
“There’s always something” he murmurs, reaching a hand up to smooth Sherlock’s wild curls back from his face.  
   
“John, I meant it. I won’t ever leave you, not again – I’ll do anything. I can’t lost you, and I’d be an okay father, I think, and-”  
   
“She’s not mine, Sherlock”  
   
“- I could teach her- what?”  
   
John pulls him down for another kiss; sweet and short.  
   
“I said, she’s not mine.”  
   
Sherlock stares at him, his brain seemingly offline.  
   
“John- what?”  
   
“Hope is Harry and Clara’s daughter. That’s why she’s called Hope – being pregnant got Harry sober, Sherlock.”  
   
“She’s- not?” Sherlock feels like he’s been struck dumb, and from the look on John’s face it’s quite a sight.  
   
“No. I’m just looking after her for the weekend whilst Harry and Clara celebrate their anniversary.”  
   
Oh.  
 

“Oh.”  
 

John smiles softly, his hand once again reaching up, this time to cup Sherlock’s cheek.  
   
“You really meant that, didn’t you? If she had been mine, you would’ve learnt to change nappies and everything.”  
   
Sherlock’s own hand covers the one on his cheek and he wraps his free arm around the small of John’s back.  
   
“I meant what I said John. I can not lose you and I will _certainly_ never leave you. Not again. I promise.”  
   
John huffs out a laugh and rests his head against Sherlock’s collarbone, slotting into the spot beneath Sherlock’s chin perfectly; as Sherlock always knew he would.  
 

“You’re not off the hook, you realise? I’m still mad as all hell at you, and you’ve got a lot of explaining to do” John says, his voice soft and muffled by Sherlock’s shirt.

 

Sherlock closes his eyes and nods, pressing a kiss to the top of John’s head. He knows it will take a long time for them to start over, that things might never be as they were before. John might never trust him again; he might hear Sherlock’s story and swear and cuss and yell.  
 

But Sherlock is certain he will be forgiven. Eventually, John will smile; tentatively at first, but with growing joy as the days pass and Sherlock stays by his side. It will take time, but it will happen.  
 

For now, Sherlock will hold John to him as he’s been wishing for these past three years. His eyes closed and his heart racing, Sherlock will keep John, safe, in his arms.  
 

 

And he will hope.  
 


End file.
